


heavy is the head that gets no sleep

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2020 [18]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Exhaustion", "Sleep Deprivation", Day 23, Exhaustion, Hallucinations, Ironically author is sleep deprived, Sleep Deprivation, What's A Whumpee Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, auditory hallucinations, prompt 23, whumptober2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2020, #23: What's A Whumpee Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here?: "Sleep Deprivation" "Exhaustion"Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he slept.He’dtried,but no one would let him. Every time he so much as looked at his tent, Miss Grimshaw or Dutch was there, nipping at him for not contributing enough, or Pearson was there, heckling him to go out hunting.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945801
Comments: 15
Kudos: 108
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	heavy is the head that gets no sleep

###  _heavy is the head that gets no sleep_  
~Cold is the Night, Oh Hellos

Arthur was so, so tired.

He couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

He’d _tried,_ but no one would let him. Every time he so much as looked at his tent, Miss Grimshaw or Dutch was there, nipping at him for not contributing enough, or Pearson was there, heckling him to go out hunting.

Every time, he wanted to _scream._ ‘Look at the ledger! Look at my goddamn name!’ he was contributing more than anyone else, but they acted like he was just sitting on his ass. Like it was _him_ getting drunk, sitting around the campfire, night after night, instead of skipping sleep to bring in supplies and money and provisions. Last time he’d lost his temper - once Dutch walked off, of course, he was no fool - and nearly thrown the ledger when he’d found he was right, his name had been on the page thirty nine out of the fifty times on the front-back spread, all jewelry or decent amounts of money or carcasses, not goddamn _bat wings_ (really Marston?!) or nickles and dimes.

  
  


And it was another one of those nights.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d slept.

Three nights?

Four?

Five?

His stomach was growling but he was too tired to eat.

He finished signing his name on the ledge - _Arthur Silver Pocket Watch $8.00 -_ for the ninth time in a row, making sure his satchel was empty before turning on his heel, sending up a small prayer before beginning to make his way to his tent.

  
  


“Arthur!”

Oh no.

“I have a lead I need you to follow up on.” Dutch. Why was it always Dutch.

He looked longingly at the cot he could see beckoning at him from his tent,

“Please son, I _need_ you to do this for me. It’s very important.”

He sighed, knew Dutch wouldn’t let it drop. “Alright, Dutch.”

The man’s face lit up, and he clasped Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur wobbled, had to catch himself, but Dutch didn’t notice, already digging through his pocket, shoving a piece of paper in his hand. “Here, there’s a man named Jackson Ricketts at this address, he’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“...okay Dutch.” but he was already walking away, picking up his most recent book off the table he kept near the flaps of his tent.

  
  


For a moment, all he could do was stand there. Stare at Dutch, plopping down in his chair and leaning over to start reading with Molly. Turn to stare at his cot, then at the ledger. Had he put in what he’d brought back that evening? He was pretty sure he had, but he really couldn’t remember.

Arthur took a moment to fumble through his satchel.

Either he’d put in the jewelry and money he’d brought back, or he’d been robbed.

He was so tired he couldn’t find it in him to care.

But then Javier’s guitar started to play over at the campfire, and he _did_ care. Anger, indignation, started up bright hot in his stomach, how was that fair? He could see Bill sitting near the campfire, and he hadn’t even seen Bill’s name _on_ the ledger!

But just as quickly the anger flickered out, what was the point? He’d just get told he needed to pull his weight, do his part, and then he’d get shoved towards the horses even if he demanded they check the ledger, get told to stop acting like a child, _‘you’re too old to be acting like this, Arthur!’_ and then the others would laugh at him, and Micah was over by the fire too, and nothing infuriated him more than seeing that smug bastard laughing at him.

So he threw a last, longing look at his cot, could have sworn he heard it say _“Sleep?”_ though that could have been his subconscious telling him something, and trudged over to the horses.

Stared blankly at his mare - the O’Driscoll had untacked her.

He had to tack her up.

_Fuck,_ he had to tack her up.

The O’Driscoll had left her saddle on the post right next to her.

Small blessings.

  
  


He picked up the saddle, grunting beneath his weight, took a step and proceeded to drop it.

Heard someone laugh - looked up, but no one was looking at him. Scowled, very funny Micah, stooped down and picked it up again, struggling, couldn’t remember the saddle ever being this heavy before. John was laughing, but when he looked up the man had turned away, was staring at the campfire as though he’d never moved, and irritation boiled low in Arthur’s stomach.

Finally managed to fling the saddle onto the horse, throwing it more than setting it down, apologized under his breath and stepped forward, tried to tighten the cinch and

_“Even after all these years, can’t even tack up a horse.”_ Dutch scowled in his ear and he whirled about, bared his teeth _the man was going too damn far!_ but what the hell? He was still sitting over with Molly, showing her something in his book, and he blinked - he must have been more tired than he thought, goddamn was it even safe for him to ride out?

Probably not, but it wasn’t like anyone would listen if he tried to say anything, so he shook his head, _‘Just imagining things,’_ and fastened the cinch.

Or, at least, tried to.

He _couldn’t get the damn cinch fastened._

His hands were shaking too badly, and the world was doing a funny swirling thing. He took a deep breath, found it oddly shaky and then he wasn’t even trying, was just clutching the cinch in his hands and taking deep breaths, then not even those.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice was loud in his ear, too loud, and he flinched, “Arthur son, what’s wrong?” and _oh,_ he’d thought he was imagining things again but then there was a very real hand on his arm, one grasping his chin and forcing him to look up, he hadn’t even realized he’d leaned over, grinding his forehead into her saddle, and wow Hosea was whirling wasn’t he?

“Arthur, you’re crying,” and huh, he hadn’t even realized that, reached up to wipe his face and was startled to find his hand wet, “Son, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“...I can’t do this.” his breath hitched, and he looked at Hosea pleadingly, “Hosea, I’m so tired, I… I can’t… I just want to _sleep.”_

  
  


Hosea couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Arthur so distressed. He was looking at him with nothing shy of sheer desperation. Looking at him as though he needed _permission_ to sleep, tears streaming down his face, breathing becoming more and more labored, hitching as though he couldn’t catch it, “Okay Arthur, okay, you can sleep, just calm down.”

But Arthur’s nostrils flared, face flushing red as he tried - failed - to raise his voice “No I can’t! No one… no one will let me! I-I just… I want to sleep. I haven’t slept in days. Everyone else is… is drinkin’ and partyin’, and I haven’t _slept.”_

Fury settled, cold as fresh ice, in Hosea’s stomach.

He wanted to storm over to the men that he could see drinking around the campfire. Beginning to slur along to Javier’s singing, celebrating nothing at all, costing them money in beer while bringing in _nothing._ Wanted to wrench Susan and Pearson and Dutch by the ears - Arthur hadn’t named names or pointed fingers, but it didn’t take a fool to guess who’d caused him to work himself to the edge.

Shit, but he wasn’t blameless. He’d spent the last few days with Arthur when he was in camp (which, he realized with a sinking stomach, wasn't many) and hadn’t seen him _sleep,_ didn’t think he could remember him eating either, and how he had missed how _awful_ he looked he didn’t know. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sunken in. His eyes were so dark he’d thought, when he’d first walked over, that he had had a pair of black eyes, the bags beneath them so heavy even his bags had bags. Even as tears dripped down his face his eyelids sagged as though he were about to fall asleep right there, “Hosea, _please,_ I’m so tired.” but he was fumbling with the cinch again, failing to secure the strap by a mile.

Hosea’s throat clicked on a swallow - what had they done to their son? what had they done to make him think he had to work himself to this point? - and he nodded, “Of course Arthur, come on, let’s get you to bed.” but Arthur didn’t move, instead wavered on his feet, and Hosea’s heart leaped into his throat, lunging to grab his arm and steady him, called out “Mr. Smith! Help me please!” and Charles jogged over from where he’d been on watch, leaning his rifle against a hay bale as he shrugged Arthur’s arm over his shoulder, the man’s head lolling against him.

  
  


Arthur was vaguely aware of his arms being thrown over people’s shoulders, of being carried-dragged-a small distance. Of being laid down on something that seemed impossibly soft, wanting to surge up because _I need to work!_ _no one else will!_ but he felt _so_ heavy so surely he could lay down for just a second?

“‘Night Arthur,”

A hand ran through his hair, “Sleep, son,” and his blanket was tucked up to his chin, but he was already long asleep.

  
  


Hosea nodded to Charles as they stepped out of Arthur’s tent, rolling his shoulder, protesting at having supported Arthur’s heavy weight, the young man frowning in concern even as he went back to take up his watch.

The older man sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, remembering what Arthur had been mumbling as they carried him back to his tent - most of it had been too nonsensical to make out, but he’d _definitely_ made out one word.

But he didn’t dare risk waking Arthur, so he waited until he was flinging open the man’s tent to boom,

**“VAN DER LINDE!”**


End file.
